


Healing

by YumeArashi



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Caretaking, Gen, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumeArashi/pseuds/YumeArashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you would know a man, walk a mile in his shoes.  Altaïr and Malik after a mission gone wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healing

Altaïr ibn La-Ahad had always thought that he feared nothing.  He was an Assassin, death and pain meant nothing to him.  He could endure torture at the hands of his enemies and never speak.  He could leap off a cliff without hesitation, aiming for a pile of hay no larger to him than the eye of a needle, thousands of feet below.  He did not know the meaning of fear.

“Stay still, damn you, unless you want to end up like me!”

Altaïr stilled instantly at Malik’s growled words.  Death, he could face.  Becoming a cripple, being confined to a desk - that he could not.  Malik leaned his weight on Altaïr’s chest, holding him down for the surgeon’s inspection.  “How bad is it?”

“The bone is badly shattered, and those flesh wounds mean it can’t be properly braced yet.  He’ll have to stay still until the wounds close enough that we can apply a cast.  If he’s extremely lucky, we’ll be able to keep the wounds clean and free of infection, and he’ll keep the arm.  Even so, it may never regain full strength, it’s a very bad break.  He’ll be out of commission for months.”

Altaïr fought to quell the rising panic.  No missions for months?  An arm that might be useless even if he kept it?  Malik snorted.  “Don’t worry about this idiot, he’s too stubborn to let little things like infections and broken bones keep him down.”  Despite the tone, Altaïr found the words oddly reassuring.

“That may be, but if he’s too stubborn to follow my instructions, the arm won’t ever heal properly.”  The Brotherhood’s surgeon looked down at Altaïr with a frown.  “Do I make myself clear?”

Altaïr nodded quickly.  Whatever it took to get better, he would do without complaint.  Malik, knowing Altaïr very well, shook his head.  “He’ll be sick of the confinement in a week, but I’ll make sure he behaves.”  Altaïr glared at him.

The surgeon smirked faintly.  “Well enough.    Here is what you will need to do to care for the arm…”  Altaïr listened carefully, determined to care for himself as quickly as possible.  He was furious with himself for the moment of carelessness that had let the Templar’s spiked mace through his guard.  He did not want to burden Malik any more than was necessary, nor lie invalid in the tiny Bureau.  He would get better as quickly as possible, he told himself - refusing to entertain the idea that he might not get better at all.

*****

Altaïr was carefully relocated to the little sleeping room at the back of the Bureau, despite his protests about taking Malik’s bed.  He lay on the narrow cot with strict instructions not to move, lest he jostle his broken arm.  Malik had left food and water by the bedside and told Altaïr to call if he needed anything else, before heading back out to the main room to work on his maps.  Malik had only one lamp, so the room was dark, and the air was close and stuffy.  It was a tiny room, no longer than the cot and scarcely wider.  Altaïr told himself sternly that none of this bothered him, and tried not to think longingly of open skies and the freedom of the rooftops.

He forced himself to focus on his recovery instead.  It would be a few weeks before the torn flesh would close over, but after that the arm could be set and he could at least have some freedom of movement, surely.  He tried not to think about the everyday difficulties he would encounter.  Whatever obstacles he encountered, he would overcome.

*****

Sleep proved difficult, if for no other reason than Malik’s frequent visits to clean and redress the wounds.  In any other situation, Altaïr would have considered the caution excessive, and might have even chided Malik for worrying.  But each time the rafiq came in, Altaïr couldn’t help but see the stump of the ruined left arm and wonder if that would be the fate of his as well.  He endured the stinging antiseptic and painful handling of his broken arm without complaint.

And truth be told, Altaïr soon found himself grateful that the visits brought light and company and a breath of fresh air to the gloomy, stuffy room.  In between times, he could only doze fitfully and wait for the first hint of heat and swelling and redness that would herald the infection that could take his arm and end him as an Assassin.

Anything was better than that.

*****

Altaïr sighed in relief as the surgeon pronounced his wounds clean and sufficiently healed that a cast could be applied.  He sat patiently as the bandages, dipped in lime and egg white to stiffen them, were wrapped around the limb.

“You have done well in tending it, I am impressed that there was never even a hint of infection.  Has he been much trouble?” the surgeon grinned at Malik. 

“Not yet,” Malik smirked back.  Indeed, Altaïr had been surprisingly well-behaved thus far, sleeping a lot of the time and reluctantly asking for help as needed.  Perhaps it was the humiliation of having to request assistance for even such basic needs as the chamber pot that had kept Altaïr humble.  “But most of us are used to having to spend a few weeks recuperating from serious injuries.  This is where things will get interesting, because now he thinks everything’s fine - don’t you?”

Altaïr glared at Malik.  The surgeon shook his head.  “The cast will help, but that doesn’t mean you can just act as though nothing’s happened.  You still need to rest, young man.  No climbing, no running, and certainly no missions.  I don’t want you leaving this Bureau for at least three months.”

“Three months?” In his outrage, Altaïr missed Malik’s own grimace entirely.  “I have had broken bones before, I was never confined to bed for three months!”

The surgeon gave a long-suffering sigh, as though used to such reactions.  “When that mace caught your arm up against the wall, the bone was all but pulverized,” he explained patiently.  “A break like that takes far longer to heal than a clean snap.  It will be at least a year before you’ll have even a decent fraction of your original strength back in that limb.”

Altaïr stared in dismay.  Malik snorted.  “Come now, is my company truly that offensive?”

The question earned him a sulky look and a reluctant ‘no’.  Malik sighed and told himself that it would be a waste of his hard work in keeping Altaïr alive, if he lost his temper and strangled the man before the three months were up.

*****

The first thing Altaïr had requested, once being cleared to leave the bed, was a proper bath.  Malik pulled down a wooden tub and told him to fill it at the garden fountain.  Altaïr took the basin, wondering why the other man had been grinning.

He soon found out, as the full tub was exceedingly difficult to maneuver with only one arm.  He managed to wrestle it away from the fountain, however, feeling triumphant.

The feeling was short-lived, as he quickly discovered that bathing with one arm was equally challenging.  He managed both legs, slightly awkwardly, the front of his torso and his face - but his good arm and his back defied him.

“Need some help?” Malik called out cheerfully when he heard the splashing pause. 

Altaïr growled in response.  “I’ll be fine!”  Despite his defiance, however, further efforts proved fruitless.  His body was trained to be strong and swift and agile, but flexibility was not one of his strong suits.  “Malik,” he called, defeated.

Malik hid his amusement fairly well as he came out to help bathe Altaïr - not that Altaïr didn’t know he found the situation funny anyhow.  “How do you do it?” he wanted to know.

Malik shrugged.  “A combination of flexibility and wash cloths, mostly.  And what’s left of my arm is still mobile, so there are some things I can do with it.”  He rotated the stump of his arm in demonstration, and Altaïr watched in sickened curiosity.

“Was there anyone to help you?”  _Like you are helping me_ , the words went unsaid.

“When I was still at Masyaf, the healers offered, but I had too much pride to accept.  I was too determined to do things on my own.  Which was just as well, since I have to be self-sufficient here.”

Altaïr stood at Malik’s prompting and held still while the other assassin helped him dry off and dress in clean clothes, managing cords and fastenings that would have been difficult to reach or tie on his own.

Altaïr watched the deft fingers knot string one-handed, with the agility of long practice.  “It must have been difficult,” he said quietly.  Why had he never realized?  Even the simplest, most mundane tasks must have seemed insurmountable at times.

Malik shrugged again.  “It had to be done.”

*****

The days passed slowly with nothing to do.  Altaïr did his best not to pester Malik out of sheer boredom, wary of getting scolded if the temptation became too much.  The surgeon eventually approved light exercise to keep Altaïr’s body limber and strong, and Altaïr whiled away the hours exercising, playing chess with himself, pacing, or napping.  Or, if Malik was in an exceptionally tolerant mood, watching the rafiq work or conversing with him.  Malik’s tongue was as sharp as ever, but even so, there were times when Altaïr felt as though things were almost the same as they had been back before everything went wrong.

Almost.

*****

“How do you stand it?” Altaïr burst out one particularly sweltering afternoon.

Malik must have been a mild mood, for instead of rebuking Altaïr for the outburst, he merely asked, “Stand what?”

“Being here!  Day in and day out, this airless little cage of a Bureau,” Altaïr growled, pacing furiously. 

Malik set his map aside and walked out into the garden, splashing water on his face.  Altaïr followed, wanting to see if Malik would answer or was ignoring him.  Malik looked up at the tiny patch of sky above them, barred by the grate of the roof, and Altaïr caught a flash of longing before it was hidden behind Malik’s usual stoicism.  “Of course I miss it,” he said quietly.  “After knowing the freedom we had, who could not?  But that changes nothing.  This is my post.  It is all I can do to serve the Brotherhood now.  I can never be what I was.”

He turned and headed back inside, leaving Altaïr feeling sick under the midday sun.

*****

In the mornings, Malik trained.  Despite his assignment behind a desk, Malik took pride in keeping himself conditioned, and ran through a daily set of demanding exercises and practice maneuvers, sparring with his shadow.  Altaïr watched, surprised and humbled at the grace, power, and speed that Malik exhibited.  Surely Malik would be no easy opponent - especially to any enemy who dismissed him as a simple cripple.  As soon as the doctor allowed it, Altaïr sparred against him, and if Malik went easy on his brother assassin, Altaïr would have been infuriated if not for the fact that Malik still beat him each time.  His own handicap was too much to overcome.

Altaïr had always been arrogant about his abilities, but he knew that Malik put him to shame.  Altaïr still had difficulty with such basic things as bathing and dressing with his immobilized arm.  Malik had not only overcome these day-to-day challenges, but had learned to fight all over again, had kept himself fit and lean and strong for missions that he knew would never come.  The unfairness of relegating Malik to idle desk duty, the waste of his abilities, left a sour taste in Altaïr’s mouth.

*****

The doctor had cleared Altaïr for light duty, and he was to depart for Masayf in the morning.  He and Malik shared a simple evening meal in silence.  The rafiq’s face betrayed nothing of his thoughts, as usual, but Altaïr had known him all their lives, and he could tell that Malik was unhappy.  The idea flattered him a little, and a part of him hated himself for feeling that way.  It was, after all, Altaïr’s own fault that Malik was confined to these narrow walls.  Altaïr could only imagine how much more miserable it would be without anyone for company - even someone Malik still rightfully resented.

“I will speak to Al Mualim when I return,” he broke the silence.

Malik looked over, surprised. “About what?”

“About your assignment.  It is a waste.  You could do so much more for the Brotherhood than this place offers.”

A wild spark of hope flashed in Malik’s eyes before it was quickly stamped out.  “You know very well that I can never have active duty again.”

“The others have not seen what you can do.  I have.  You are hardly the useless cripple everyone thinks.  Even if they refuse to give you missions, you could join the scholars at Masyaf.  Your mind is as quick and powerful as your body.  Anything but here would be an improvement, right?”

Malik’s lips quirked in a wry smile.  “I suppose I cannot argue that another assignment would be preferable.  But you will be wasting your breath.”

“I will try all the same,” Altaïr said firmly.  “They are fools if they believe that you can do nothing but sit behind a desk and draw maps.”  He rested a hand on Malik’s shoulder.  “I have not yet thanked you for these past months.  If not for your vigilant care, I likely would have lost the arm.  If not for your strict enforcement of the doctor’s orders, I would never have healed right.  You have fed me, bathed me, clothed me, kept me company, given up your own bed, warded off boredom, helped me to regain my strength.”

Malik look uncomfortable.  “We are all brothers.  It is to be expected.”

“Perhaps you would have done the same for any assassin.  But it does not mean I am ungrateful.”  He folded his hands in his lap.  “I am no good with words.  As often as not, I try to speak with you and we end up arguing.  But you should know that I have more respect for you than words can carry.  I always knew you were strong, but I never knew just _how_ strong.  These past months, living the life you do, has taught me that.  I cannot deny, of the two of us, you are the better man.”  He swallowed painfully.  “And there are no words for how much I regret that you have had to become so strong because of what I did to you.”

Malik was silent, stunned by the confession.  Altaïr stood, managing a little smile for him.  “In the morning, I will go to Masyaf and do everything I can to argue for your reassignment.  It is the least I can do.  For now….sleep well, my brother.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my friend CK, because without getting to know her Altair-muse, this never would have been possible.


End file.
